The storm had swallowed the town whole. Streets once alive with chatter now lay abandoned, washed in shadows. In the small attic of her grandmother’s house, Amara sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, watching the single candle flicker against the dark. Each time the flame bent, it cast long, trembling figures on the wall—shapes that did not belong to her.

At first, she thought it was the wind sneaking through the cracks. But then one of the shadows moved when the flame stood still.

Her breath caught. The figure on the wall raised a hand, and though she sat frozen, her own hand rose in perfect imitation.

Amara realized with horror—the candle wasn’t keeping the darkness away. It was inviting something through.